 Chapter 1 OF THE HONTED HOTEL, A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE In the year 1860 the reputation of Dr. Wybrow as a London physician reached its highest point. It was reported on good authority that he was in receipt of one of the largest incomes derived from the practice of medicine in modern times. One afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the doctor had just taken his lunch in, after a specially hard morning's work in his consulting room, and with a formidable list of visits to patients at their own houses to fill up the rest of his day, when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him. "'Who is she?' the doctor asked, a stranger. "'Yes, sir. I see no strangers out of consulting hours. Tell her what the hours are and send her away.' "'I have told her, sir.' "'Well, and she won't go.' "'Won't go?' The doctor smiled as he repeated the words. He was a humorist in his way, and there was an absurd side to the situation which rather amused him. "'Has this obstinate lady given you her name?' he inquired. "'No, sir. She refused to give any name. She said she wouldn't keep you five minutes, and the matter was too important to wait till tomorrow. There she is, in the consulting room, and how to get her out again is more than I know.' Dr. Weibraau considered for a moment. His knowledge of women, professionally speaking, rested on the ripe experience of more than thirty years. He had met with them in all their varieties, especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time, and never hesitates at sheltering itself behind the privileges of its sex. A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds among the patients who are waiting for him at their own houses. He decided forthwith on taking the only wise course that was open under the circumstances. In other words, he decided on taking to flight. "'Is the carriage at the door?' he asked. "'Yes, sir.' "'Very well. Open the house door for me without making any noise and leave the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting room. When she gets tired of waiting, you know what to tell her. If she asks when I am expected to return, say that I dine at my club and spend the evening at the theatre. Now then, softly thomas, if your shoes creak, I am a lost man.' He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant on tiptoe. "'Did the lady in the consulting room suspect him, or did thomas' shoes creak, and was her sense of hearing unusually keen?' "'Whatever the explanation may be, the event that actually happened was beyond all doubt. Exactly as Dr. Wibrow passed his consulting room, the door opened, the lady appeared on the threshold, and laid her hand on his arm. "'I entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting me speak to you first.' The accent was foreign, the tone was low and firm, her fingers closed gently and yet resolutely on the doctor's arm. Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect in inclining him to grant her request. The influence that instantly stopped him on the way to his carriage was the silent influence of her face, the startling contrast between the corpse-like pallor of her complexion, and the overpowering life and light, the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes held him literally spellbound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste. She was of middle height, and apparently of middle age, say a year or two over thirty. Her lower features, the nose, mouth, and chin, possessed the fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener seen among women of foreign races than among women of English birth. She was unquestionably a handsome person, with the one serious drawback of her ghastly complexion, and with the less noticeable defect of a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes. Apart from his first emotion of surprise, the feeling she produced in the doctor may be described as an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. The case might prove to be something entirely new in his professional experience. It looks like it, he thought, and it's worth waiting for. She perceived that she had produced a strong impression of some kind upon him and dropped her hold on his arm. You have comforted many miserable women in your time, she said. Comfort one more today. Without waiting to be answered, she led the way back into the room. The doctor followed her and closed the door. He placed her in the patient's chair opposite the windows. Even in London, the sun on that summer afternoon was dazzlingly bright. The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly, with a steely steadiness of the eyes of an eagle. The smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever. For the first time for many a long year passed, the doctor felt his pulse quicken its beat in the presence of a patient. Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared strangely enough to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to speak first, the doctor merely inquired in the conventional phrase what he could do for her. The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight at the light, she set up abruptly. I have a painful question to ask. What is it? Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the doctor's face. Without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put the painful question in these extraordinary words. I want to know, if you please, whether I am in danger of going mad. Some men might have been amused and some might have been alarmed. After why Brow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment. Was this the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly by appearances? Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman whose melody was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a weak brain? Why do you come to me? He asked sharply, why don't you consult a doctor who special employments the treatment of the insane? She had her answer ready on the instant. I don't go to a doctor of that sort, she said, for the very reason that he is a specialist. He has the fatal habit of judging everybody by lines and rules of his own laying down. I come to you because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries and disease, are you satisfied? He was more than satisfied. His first idea had been the right idea after all. Besides, she was correctly informed as to his professional position. The capacity which had raised him to fame and fortune was his capacity, unrivaled among his brethren, for the discovery of remote disease. I am at your disposal, he answered. Let me try if I can find out what is the matter with you. He put his medical questions. They were promptly and plainly answered, and they led to no other conclusion than that the strange lady was mentally and physically in excellent health. Not satisfied with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life. Neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything that was amiss. With the admirable patience and devotion to his art which had distinguished him from the time when he was a student, with the admirable patience and devotion to his art which had distinguished him from the time when he was a student, he still subjected her to one test after another. The result was always the same. Not only was there no tendency to brain disease, there was not even a perceptible derangement of the nervous system. I can find nothing the matter with you, he said. I can't even account for the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. You completely puzzle me. The pallor of my complexion is nothing. She answered a little impatiently. In my early life I had a narrow escape from death by poisoning. I have never had a complexion since, and my skin is so delicate I cannot paint without producing a hideous rash. But that is of no importance. I wanted your opinion given positively. I believed in you, and you have disappointed me. Her head dropped on her breast, and so it ends. She said to herself, bitterly, the doctor's sympathies were touched. Perhaps it might be more correct to say that his professional pride was a little hurt. It may end in the right way, he remarked, if you choose to help me. She looked up again with flashing eyes. Speak plainly, she said. How can I help you? Plainly madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to make the right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. My art will do much, but not all. For example, something must have occurred, something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health to frighten you about yourself, or you would never have come here to consult me. Is that true? She clasped her hands in her lap. That is true, she said eagerly. I begin to believe in you again. Very well, you can't expect me to find out the moral cause which has alarmed you. I can positively discover that there is no physical cause of alarm, and, unless you admit me to your confidence, I can do no more. She rose and took a turn in the room. Suppose I tell you, she said, but mind, I shall mention no names. There is no need to mention names, the facts are all I want. The facts are nothing, she rejoined. I have only my own impressions to confess, and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you hear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content you. I will begin with the facts that you want. Take my word for it, they won't do much to help you. She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began the strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the doctor's ears. CHAPTER 2 It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow, she said. It is another fact that I am going to be married again. There she paused and smiled at some thought that occurred to her. Dr. Weibra was not favorably impressed by her smile, there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise in acting on his first impression. His mind reverted to the commonplace patience and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him with a certain tender regret. The lady went on. My approaching marriage, she said, has one embarrassing circumstance connected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be was engaged to another lady when he happened to meet with me abroad. That lady, mind being of his own blood and family, related to him as his cousin. I have innocently robbed her of her lover and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently I say because he told me nothing of his engagement until after I had accepted him. When we next met in England and when there was danger, no doubt, of the affair coming to my knowledge he told me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He had his excuse ready. He showed me a letter from the lady herself, releasing him from his engagement. A more noble, a more high-minded letter I never read in my life. I cried over it, I who have no tears in me for sorrows of my own. If the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven I would have positively refused to marry him. But the firmness of it, without anger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wishes even for his happiness, the firmness of it I say, left him no hope. He appealed to my compassion. He appealed to his love for me. You know what women are. I too was soft-hearted, I said. Very well? Yes. In a week more I tremble as I think of it. We are to be married. She did really tremble. She was obliged to pause and compose herself before she could go on. The doctor, waiting for more facts, began to fear that he stood committed to a long story. Forgive me for reminding you that I have suffering persons waiting to see me. He said, the sooner you can come to the point, the better for my patience and for me. The strange smile, at once so sad and so cruel, showed itself again on the lady's lips. Every word I have said is to the point, she answered. You will see it yourself in a moment more. She resumed her narrative. Yesterday, you need fear no long story, sir. Yesterday I was among the visitors at one of your English luncheon parties. A lady, a perfect stranger to me, came in late after we had left the table and had retired to the drawing-room. She happened to take a chair near me and we were presented to each other. I knew her by name as she knew me. It was the woman whom I had robbed of her lover, the woman who had written the noble letter. Now listen, you were impatient with me for not interesting you in what I said just now. I said it to satisfy your mind that I had no enmity of feeling towards the lady on my side. I admired her, I felt for her, I had no cause to reproach myself. This is very important as you will presently see. On her side I have reason to be assured that the circumstances had been truly explained to her and that she understood I was in no way to blame. Now knowing all these necessary things as you do, explain to me if you can, why, when I rose and met that woman's eyes looking at me, I turned cold from head to foot and shuddered and shivered and knew what a deadly panic of fear was for the first time in my life. The doctor began to feel interested at last. Was there anything remarkable in the lady's personal appearance? He asked. Nothing whatever, was the vehement reply. Here is the true description of her, the ordinary English lady, the clear cold blue eyes, the fine rosy complexion, the inanimately polite manner, the large good-humoured mouth, the two plump cheeks and chin, these and nothing more. Was there anything in her expression when you first looked at her that took you by surprise? There was natural curiosity to see the woman who had been preferred to her, and perhaps some astonishment also not to see a more engaging and more beautiful person. Both those feelings restrained within the limits of good-breeding and both not lasting for more than a few moments, so far as I could see. I say so far, because the horrible agitation that she communicated to me disturbed my judgment. If I could have got to the door I would have run out of the room. She frightened me so. I was not even able to stand up. I sank back in my chair. I stared horrid struck at the calm blue eyes that were only looking at me with a gentle surprise. To say they affected me like the eyes of a serpent is to say nothing. I felt her soul in them looking into mine, looking if such a thing can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self. I tell you my impression in all its horror and in all its folly. That woman is destined, without knowing it herself, to be the evil genius of my life. Her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities of wickedness in me that I was not aware of myself until I felt them stirring under her look. If I commit faults in my life to come, if I am even guilty of crimes, she will bring the retribution, without, as I firmly believe, any conscious exercise of her own will. In one indescribable moment I felt all this, and I suppose my face showed it. The good, artless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm for me. I am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you. Will you try my smelling bottle? I heard her say those kind words, and I remember nothing else. I fainted. When I recovered, my senses, the company had all gone, only the lady of the house was with me. For the moment I could say nothing to her, the dreadful impression that I have tried to describe to you came back to me with the coming back of my life. As soon as I could speak, I implored her to tell me the whole truth about the woman whom I had supplanted. You see, I had a faint hope that her good character might not really be deserved, that her noble letter was a skilful piece of hypocrisy, in short, that she secretly hated me, and was cunning enough to hide it. No, the lady had been her friend from her girlhood, was as familiar with her as if they had been sisters, knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as incapable of hating anybody as the greatest saint that ever lived. My one last hope, that I had only felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in the presence of an ordinary enemy, was a hope destroyed forever. There was one more effort I could make, and I made it. I went next to the man whom I am to marry. I implored him to release me for my promise. He refused. I declared I would break my engagement. He showed me letters from his sisters, letters from his brothers and his dear friends, all in treating him to think again before he made me his wife, all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, and London, which are so many vile lies. If you refuse to marry me, he said, you admit that these reports are true, you admit that you are afraid to face society in the character of my wife. What could I answer? There was no contradicting him. He was plainly right. If I persisted in my refusal, the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result. I consented to let the wedding take place as we had arranged it, and left him. The night has passed. I am here with my fixed conviction. That innocent woman is ordained to have a fatal influence over my life. I am here with my one question to put to the one man who can answer it. For the last time, sir, what am I? A demon who has seen the avenging angel, or only a poor madwoman misled by the delusion of a deranged mind. Dr. Y. Brow rose from his chair, determined to close the interview. He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. The longer he had listened to her, the more irresistibly the conviction of the woman's wickedness had forced itself on him. He tried vainly to think of her as a person to be pitied, a person with a morbidly sensitive imagination, conscious of the capacities for evil which lie dormant in our soul, and striving earnestly to open her heart to the counter-influence of her own better nature. The effort was beyond him. A perverse instinct in him said as if in words, Beware how you believe in her. I have already given you my opinion. He said, There is no sign of your intellect being deranged or being likely to be deranged. That medical science can discover, as I understand it. As for the impressions you have confided in me, I can only say that yours is a case, as I venture to think, for spiritual rather than for medical advice. Of one thing be assured, what you have said to me in this room shall not pass out of it. Your confession is safe in my keeping. She heard him with a certain dogged resignation to the end. Is that all? she asked. That is all, he answered. She put a little paper packet of money on the table. Thank you, sir. There is your fee. With those words she rose. Her wild black eyes looked upward with an expression of despair so defiant and so horrible in its silent agony that the doctor turned away his head unable to endure the sight of it. The bare idea of taking anything from her, not money only but anything even that she had touched, suddenly revolted him. Still without looking at her he said, Take it back, I don't want my fee. She neither heeded nor heard him. Still looking upward she said slowly to herself, Let the end come. I have done with a struggle. I submit. She drew her veil over her face, bowed to the doctor, and left the room. He rang the bell and followed her into the hall. As the servant closed the door on her a sudden impulse of curiosity utterly unworthy of him and at the same time utterly irresistible sprang up in the doctor's mind. Blushing like a boy he said to the servant, Follow her home and find out her name. For one moment the man looked at his master, doubting if his own ears had not deceived him. Dr. Wybrow looked back at him in silence. The submissive servant knew what that silence meant. He took his hat and hurried into the street. The doctor went back to the consulting room. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over his mind. Had the woman left an infection of wickedness in the house and had he caught it? What devil had possessed him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant? He had behaved infamously. He had asked an honest man, a man who had served him faithfully for years to turn spy. Hung by the bare thought of it he ran out into the hall again and opened the door. The servant had disappeared. It was too late to call him back. But one refuge from his contempt for himself was now open to him, the refuge of work. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among his patients. If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation he would have done it that afternoon. Never before had he made himself so little welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put off until tomorrow the prescription which ought to have been written, the opinion which ought to have been given today. He went home earlier than usual, unutterably dissatisfied with himself. The servant had returned. Dr. Weibrow was ashamed to question him. The man reported the result of his errand without waiting to be asked. The lady's name is the Countess Naronna. She leaves at—without waiting to hear where she lived the doctor acknowledged the all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head and entered his consulting room. The fee that he had vainly refused still lain its little white paper covering on the table. He sealed it up in an envelope, addressed it to the poor box of the nearest police court, and calling the servant in directed him to take it to the match-street the next morning. Faithful to his duties the servant waited to ask the customary question, Do you dine at home today, sir? After a moment's hesitation he said, No, I shall dine at the club. The most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is the quality called conscience. In one state of a man's mind his conscience is a severest judge that can pass sentence on him. In another state he and his conscience are on the best possible terms with each other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices. When Dr. Weibrow left his house for the second time he did not even attempt to conceal from himself that his sole object in dining at the club was to hear what the world said of the Countess Narona. End of chapter 2, recording by Kehinde of bartrack.com. Chapter 3 of The Haunted Hotel, a mystery of modern Venice. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kehinde. The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins, chapter 3. There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought the society of ladies. The man knows better now. He goes to the smoking room of his club. Dr. Weibrow lit his cigar and looked around him at his brethren in social conclave assembled. The room was well filled, but the flow of talk was still languid. The doctor innocently applied the stimulant that was wanted. When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona he was answered by something like a shout of astonishment. Never, the conclave agreed, had such an absurd question been asked before. Every human creature with the slightest claim to a place in society knew the Countess Narona. An adventurous with a European reputation of the blackest possible color such was the general description of the woman with the death-like complexion and the glittering eyes. According to particulars each member of the club contributed his own little stalk of scandal to the memoirs of the Countess. It was doubtful whether she was really what she called herself a Dalmatian lady. It was doubtful whether she had ever been married to the Count, whose widow she assumed to be. It was doubtful whether the man who accompanied her in her travels under the name of Baron Rivard and in the character of her brother was her brother at all. The boy pointed to the Baron as a gambler at every table on the continent. Report whispered that his so-called sister had narrowly escaped being implicated in a famous trial for poisoning at Vienna that she had been known at Milan as a spy in the interests of Austria that her apartment in Paris had been denounced to the police as nothing less than a private gambling house and that her present appearance in England was the natural result of the discovery. Only one member of the assembly in the smoking room took the part of this much abused woman and declared that her character had been most cruelly and most unjustly assailed. But as the man was a lawyer his interference went for nothing. It was naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction inherent in his profession. He was asked derisively what he thought of the circumstances under which the Countess had become engaged to be married and he made the characteristic answer that he thought the circumstances highly creditable to both parties and that he looked on the lady's future husband as a most enviable man. Hearing this the doctor raised another shout of astonishment by inquiring the name of the gentleman whom the Countess was about to marry. His friends in the smoking room decided unanimously that the celebrated physician must be a second Rip Van Winkle and that he had just awakened from a supernatural sleep of twenty years. It was all very well to say that he was devoted to his profession and that he had neither time nor inclination to pick up fragments of gossip at dinner parties and balls. A man who did not know that the Countess Narona had borrowed money at Homburg of no less a person than Lord Montberry and had then deluded him into making her a proposal of marriage was a man who had probably never heard of Lord Montberry himself. The younger members of the club, humoring the joke, sent a waiter for the peerage and read aloud the memoir of the noble men in question for the doctor's benefit with illustrative morsels of information interpolated by themselves. Herbert John Westwick, first Baron Montberry of Montberry King's County, Ireland, created a peer for distinguished military services in India. Born 1812, 48 years old, doctor at the present time, not married, will be married next week, doctor to the delightful creature we have been talking about. Air presumptive, his lordship's next brother, Stefan Robert, married to Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas Martin, rector of Runegate and has issue three daughters. Younger brothers of his lordship, Francis and Henry unmarried, sisters of his lordship, Lady Barville, married to Sir Theodore Barville, Bart and Anne, widow of the late Peter Norbury, a squire of Norbury Cross. Bear his lordship's relations well in mind, doctor. Three brothers, Westwick, Stefan, Francis and Henry, and two sisters, Lady Barville and Mrs. Norbury. Not one of the five will be present at the marriage and not one of the five will leave a stone unturned to stop it if the countess will only give them a chance. Add to these hostile members of the family another offended relative not mentioned in the peerage, a young lady, a sudden outburst of protest in more than one part of the room stopped the coming disclosure and released the doctor from further persecution. Don't mention the poor girl's name. It's too bad to make a joke of that part of the business. She has behaved nobly under shameful provocation. There is but one excuse for Mount Berry. He is either a madman or a fool. In these terms the protest expressed itself on all sides. Speaking confidentially to his next neighbor, the doctor discovered that the lady, referred to, was already known to him through the countess's confession as the lady deserted by Lord Mount Berry. Her name was Agnes Flockwood. She was described as being the superior of the countess in personal attraction and as being also by some years the younger woman of the two. Making all allowance for the follies that men committed every day in their relations with women, Mount Berry's delusion was still the most monstrous delusion on record. In this expression of opinion every man present agreed, the lawyer even included. Not one of them could call to mind the innumerable instances in which the sexual influence has proved irresistible in the persons of women without even the pretension to beauty. The very members of the club, whom the countess, in spite of her personal disadvantages, could have most easily fascinated. If she had thought it worth her while, were the members who wandered most loudly at Mount Berry's choice of a wife. While the topic of the countess's marriage was still the one topic of conversation, a member of the club entered the smoking room whose appearance instantly produced a dead silence. Dr. Weibraus' next neighbor whispered to him, Henry Westwick. The newcomer looked around him slowly with a bitter smile. You are all talking of my brother. He said, Don't mind me. Not one of you can despise him more hardly than I do. Go on, gentlemen. Go on. One man present took the speaker at his word. That man was the lawyer who had already undertaken the defense of the countess. I stand alone in my opinion, he said, and I am not ashamed of repeating it in anybody's hearing. I consider the countess Narona to be a cruelly treated woman. Why shouldn't she be Lord Mount Berry's wife? Who can say she has a mercenary motive in marrying him? Mount Berry's brother turned sharply on the speaker. I say it. He answered. The reply might have shaken some men. The lawyer stood on his ground as firmly as ever. I believe I am right, he rejoined, in stating that his lordship's income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life, also that it is an income derived almost entirely from landed property in Ireland, every acre of which is entailed. Mount Berry's brother made a sign admitting that he had no objection to offer so far. If his lordship dies first, the lawyer proceeded. I have been informed that the only provision he can make for his widow consists in a rent charge on the property of no more than four hundred a year. His retiring pension and allowances it is well known died with him. Four hundred a year is there for all that he can leave to the countess if he leaves her a widow. Four hundred a year is not all, was the reply to this. My brother has ensured his life for ten thousand pounds, and he has settled the whole of it on the countess in the event of his death. This announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each other and repeated the three startling words. Ten thousand pounds? Driven fairly to the wall, the lawyer made a last effort to defend his position. May I ask who made that settlement a condition of the marriage? He said, surely it was not the countess herself? Henry Westwick answered, it was the countess's brother, and added, which comes to the same thing. After that there was no more to be said, so long at least, as Montberry's brother was present. The talk flowed into other channels, and the doctor went home. But his morbid curiosity about the countess was not set at rest yet. In his leisure moments he found himself wondering whether Lord Montberry's family would succeed in stopping the marriage after all, and more than this he was conscious of a growing desire to see the infatuated man himself. Every day during the brief interval before the wedding he looked in at the club on the chance of hearing some news. Nothing had happened so far as the club knew. The countess's position was secure. Montberry's resolution to be her husband was unshaken. They were both Roman Catholics, and they were to be married at the blank in Spanish place. So much the doctor discovered about them, and no more. On the day of the wedding, after a feeble struggle with himself, he actually sacrificed his patients and their guineas and slipped away secretly to see the marriage. To the end of his life he was angry with anybody who reminded him of what he had done on that day. The wedding was strictly private. A closed carriage stood at the church door. A few people mostly of lower class and mostly old women were scattered about the interior of the building. Here and there Dr. Weibrow detected the faces of some of his brethren of the club attracted by curiosity like himself. Four persons only stood before the altar, the bride and bridegroom and their two witnesses. One of these last was an elderly woman who might have been the countess's companion or maid. The other was undoubtedly her brother, Baron Rivard. The bridal party, the bride herself included, wore their ordinary mourning costume. Lord Montbury, personally viewed, was a middle-aged, military man of the ordinary type. Nothing in the least remarkable distinguished him either in face or figure. Baron Rivard, again in his way, was another conventional representative of another well-known type. One sees his finely pointed moustache, his bold eyes, his crisply curling hair, and his dashing carriage of the head, repeated hundreds of times over in the boulevards of Paris. The only noteworthy point about him was of the negative sort. He was not in the least like his sister. Even the officiating priest was only a harmless, humble-looking old man who went through his duties resignedly and felt visible, rheumatic difficulties every time he bent his knees. The one remarkable person, the countess herself, only raised her veil at the beginning of the ceremony and presented nothing in her plain dress that was worth a second look. Never on the face of it was there a less interesting and less romantic marriage than this. From time to time the doctor glanced round at the door up at the galleries, vaguely anticipating the appearance of some protesting stranger in possession of some terrible secret commissioned to forbid the progress of the service. Nothing in the shape of any event occurred. Nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic. Bound fast together as men and wife the two disappeared followed by their witnesses to sign the registers, and still Dr. Y. Brao waited, and still he cherished the obstinate hope that something worth seeing might certainly happen yet. The interval passed, and the married couple returning to the church walked together down the nave to the door. Dr. Y. Brao drew back as they approached. To his confusion and surprise the countess discovered him. He heard her say to her husband, one moment I see a friend. Lord Mount Barry bowed and waited. She stepped up to the doctor, took his hand and wrung it hard. He felt her overpowering black eyes looking at him through her veil. One step more you see on the way to the end. She whispered those strange words and returned to her husband. Before the doctor could recover himself and follow her Lord and Lady Mount Barry had stepped into their carriage and had driven away. At the church door stood the three or four members of the club, who like Dr. Y. Brao had watched the ceremony out of curiosity. Near them was the bride's brother waiting alone. He was evidently bent on seeing the man whom his sister had spoken to in broad daylight. His bold eyes rested on the doctor's face with a momentary flash of suspicion in them. The cloud suddenly cleared away. The baron smiled with charming courtesy, lifted his hat to his sister's friend, and walked off. The members constituted themselves into a club conclave on the church steps. They began with the baron, damned ill-looking rascal. They went on with Mount Barry. Is he going to take that horrid woman with him to Ireland? Not he. He can't face the tenantry. They know about Agnes Lockwood. Well, but where is he going? To Scotland. Does she like that? It's only for a fortnight they come back to London and go abroad, and they will never return to England, eh? Who can tell? Did you see how she looked at Mount Barry when she had to lift her veil at the beginning of the service? In his place I should have bolted. Did you see her doctor? By this time Dr. Y. Brao had remembered his patients and had heard enough of the club gossip. He followed the example of Baron Rivard and walked off. One step more, you see, on the way to the end, he repeated to himself on his way home. What end? End of Chapter 3, recording by Cain Day of Bartrek.com. Chapter 4 of The Haunted Hotel, a mystery of modern Venice. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Cain Day. The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins. Chapter 4. On the day of the marriage, Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little drawing room of her London lodgings, burning the letters which had been written to her by Mount Barry in the bygone time. Of the Countess's maliciously smart description of her, addressed to Dr. Y. Brao had not even hinted at the charm that most distinguished Agnes. The artless expression of goodness and purity which instantly attracted everyone who approached her. She looked by many years younger than she really was. With her fair complexion and her shy manner it seemed only natural to speak of her as a girl, although she was now really advancing towards thirty years of age. She lived alone, with an old nurse devoted to her, on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two. There were none of the ordinary signs of grief in her face as she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two and threw the pieces into the small fire which had been lit to consume them. Unhappily for herself she was one of those women who feel too deeply to find relief in tears. Pale and quiet with cold trembling fingers she destroyed the letters one by one without daring to read them again. She had torn the last of the series and was still shrinking from throwing it after the rest into the swiftly destroying flame when the old nurse came in and asked if she would see Master Henry, meaning that youngest member of the Westwick family who had publicly declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking room of the club. Agnes hesitated. A faint tinge of colour stole over her face. There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned that he loved her. She had made her confession to him, acknowledging that her heart was given to his eldest brother. He had submitted to his disappointment and they had met thenceforth as cousins and friends. Never before had she associated the idea of him with embarrassing recollections. But now, on the very day when his brother's marriage to another woman had consummated his brother's treason towards her, there was something vaguely repellent in the prospect of seeing him. The old nurse who remembered them both in their cradles observed her hesitation and sympathizing, of course, with the man put in a timely word for Henry. He says he's going away, my dear, and he only wants to shake hands and say goodbye. This plain statement of the case had its effect. Agnes decided on receiving her cousin. He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her in the act of throwing the fragments of Montberry's last letter into the fire. She hurriedly spoke first. You are leading London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business or pleasure? Instead of answering her, he pointed to the flaming letter and to some black ashes of burnt paper lying lightly in the lower part of the fireplace. Are you burning letters? Yes. His letters? Yes. He took her hand gently. I had no idea I was intruding on you. At a time when you must wish to be alone, forgive me, Agnes. I shall see you when I return. She signed to him with a faint smile to take a chair. We have known one another since we were children. She said, Why should I feel a foolish pride about myself in your presence? Why should I have any secrets from you? I sent back all your brothers' gifts to me some time ago. I have been advised to do more to keep nothing that can remind me of him, in short, to burn his letters. I have taken the advice, but I own, I shrank a little from destroying the last of the letters. No, not because it was the last, but because it had this in it. She opened her hand and showed him a lock of Montberry's hair, tied with a morsel of golden cord. Well, well, let it go with the rest. She dropped it into the flame. For a while she stood with her back to Henry, leaning on the mantelpiece and looking into the fire. He took the chair to which she had pointed, with a strange contradiction of expression in his face. The tears were in his eyes, while the brows above were knit close in an angry frown. He muttered to himself, damn him. She rallied her courage and looked at him again when she spoke. Well, Henry, and why are you going away? I am out of spirits, Agnes, and I want a change. She paused before she spoke again. His face told her plainly that he was thinking of her when he made that reply. She was grateful to him, but her mind was not with him. Her mind was still with the man who had deserted her. She turned round again to the fire. He said true, she asked, after a long silence, that they have been married today. He answered ungraciously in the one necessary word. Yes. Did you go to the church? He resented the question with an expression of indignant surprise. Go to the church? He repeated. I would as soon go to... He checked himself there. How can you ask? He added in lower tones. I have never spoken to Montberry. I have not even seen him since he treated you like the scoundrel and the fool that he is. She looked at him suddenly without saying a word. He understood her and begged her pardon, but he was still angry. The reckoning comes to some men, he said, even in this world. He will live to rue the day when he married that woman. Agnes took a chair by his side and looked at him with a gentle surprise. Is it quite reasonable to be so angry with her because your brother preferred her to me? She asked. Henry turned on her sharply. Do you defend the countess of all the people in the world? Why not? Agnes answered. I know nothing against her. On the only occasion when we met she appeared to be a singularly timid, nervous person, looking dreadfully ill and being indeed so ill that she fainted under the heat of my room. Why should we not do her justice? We know that she was innocent of any intention to wrong me. We know that she was not aware of my engagement. Henry lifted his hand impatiently and stopped her. There is such a thing as being too just and too forgiving. He interposed. I can't bear to hear you talk in that patient way, after the scandalously cruel manner in which you have been treated. Try to forget them both, Agnes. I wish to God I could help you to do it. Agnes laid her hand on his arm. You are very good to me, Henry, but you don't quite understand me. I was thinking of myself and my trouble in quite a different way when you came in. I was wondering whether anything which has so entirely filled my heart and so absorbed all that is best and truest in me as my feeling for your brother can really pass away as if it had never existed. I have destroyed the last visible things that remind me of him. In this world I shall see him no more. But is the tie that once bound us completely broken? Am I as entirely parted from the good and evil fortune of his life as if we had never met and never loved? What do you think, Henry? I can hardly believe it. If you could bring the retribution on him that he has deserved, Henry Westwick answered sternly. I might be inclined to agree with you. As that reply passed his lips the old nurse appeared again at the door announcing another visitor. I am sorry to disturb you, my dear, but here is little Mrs. Ferrari wanting to know when she may say a few words to you. Agnes turned to Henry before she replied, You remember Emily Bidwell, my favorite pupil years ago at the village school and afterwards my mate. She left me to marry an Italian courier named Ferrari and I am afraid it has not turned out very well. Do you mind my having her in here for a minute or two? Henry rose to take his leave. I should be glad to see Emily again at any other time, he said. But it is best that I should go now. My mind is disturbed, Agnes. I might say things to you if I stayed here any longer, which are better not said now. I shall cross the channel by the mail tonight and see how a few weeks' change will help me. He took her hand. Is there anything in the world that I can do for you? He asked very earnestly. She thanked him and tried to release her hand. He held it with a tremulous lingering grasp. God bless you, Agnes. He said in faltering tones with his eyes on the ground. Her face flushed again and the next instant turned paler than ever. She knew his heart as well as he knew it himself. She was too distressed to speak. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it fervently and, without looking at her again, left the room. The nurse hobbled after him to the head of the stairs. She had not forgotten the time when the younger brother had been the unsuccessful rival of the elder for the hand of Agnes. Be downhearted, Master Henry, whispered the old woman, with unscrupulous common sense of persons in the lower rank of life. Try her again when you come back. Left alone for a few moments, Agnes took a turn in the room trying to compose herself. She paused before a little watercolor drawing on the wall which had belonged to her mother. It was her own portrait when she was a child. How much happier we should be! She thought herself sadly, if we never grew up. The courier's wife was shown in a little meek melancholy woman with wide eyelashes and watery eyes who curled seed deferentially and was troubled with a small chronic cuff. Agnes shook hands with her kindly. Well, Emily, what can I do for you? The courier's wife made rather a strange answer. I'm afraid to tell you, Miss. Is it such a very difficult favor to grant? Sit down and let me hear how you are going on. Perhaps the petition will slip out while we are talking. How does your husband behave to you? Emily's light gray eyes looked more watery than ever. She shook her head and sighed resignedly. I have no positive complaint to make against him, Miss, but I am afraid he doesn't care about me and he seems to take no interest in his home. I may almost say he's tired of his home. It might be better for both of us, Miss, if he went travelling for a while, not to mention the money which is beginning to be wanted sadly. She put her handkerchief to her eyes and sighed again, more resignedly than ever. I don't quite understand, said Agnes. I thought your husband had an engagement to take some ladies to Switzerland and Italy. That was his ill luck, Miss. One of the ladies fell ill and the others wouldn't go without her. They paid him a month's salary as compensation, but they had engaged him for the autumn and winter and the loss is serious. I am sorry to hear it, Emily. Let us hope he will soon have another chance. It's not his turn, Miss, to be recommended when the next applications come to the courier's office. You see, there are so many of them out of employment just now. If he could be privately recommended, she stopped and left the unfinished sentence to speak for itself. Agnes understood her directly. You want my recommendation, she rejoined. Why couldn't you say so at once? She blushed. It would be such a chance for my husband. She answered, confusedly, a letter inquiring for a good courier, a six month's engagement, Miss, came to the office this morning. It's another man's turn to be chosen, and the secretary will recommend him. If my husband could only send his testimonials by the same post, with just a word in your name, Miss, it might turn the scale, as they say. A private recommendation between general folks goes so far. She stopped again, and sighed again, and looked down at the carpet as if she had some private reason for feeling a little ashamed of herself. Agnes began to be rather weary of the persistent tone of mystery in which her visitor spoke. If you want my interest with any friend of mine, she said, why can't you tell me the name? The courier's wife began to cry. I'm ashamed to tell you, Miss. For the first time, Agnes spoke sharply. Nonsense, Emily, tell me the name directly or drop the subject whichever you like best. Emily made a last desperate effort. She wrung her handkerchief in her lap, and let off the name as if she had been letting off a loaded gun. Lord Montbury! Agnes rose and looked at her. You have disappointed me. She said very quietly, but with a look which the courier's wife had never seen in her face before. Knowing what you know, you ought to be aware that it is impossible for me to communicate with Lord Montbury. I always supposed you had some delicacy of feeling. I am sorry to find that I have been mistaken. Because she was, Emily had spirit enough to feel the reproof. She walked in her meek, noiseless way to the door. I beg your pardon, Miss. I am not quite so bad as you think me, but I beg your pardon all the same. She opened the door. Agnes called her back. There was something in the woman's apology that appealed irresistibly to her just and generous nature. Come, she said, we must not part in this way. Let me not misunderstand you. What is it that you expected me to do? Emily was wise enough to answer this time without any reserve. My husband will send his testimonials, Miss, to Lord Montbury in Scotland. I only wanted you to let him say in his letter that his wife has been known to you since she was a child and that you feel some little interest in his welfare on that account. I don't ask it now, Miss. You have made me understand that I was wrong. Had she really been wrong, past remembrances as well as present troubles pleaded powerfully with Agnes for the courier's wife. It seems only a small favour to ask, she said, speaking under the impulse of kindness which was the strongest impulse in her nature, but I am not sure that I ought to allow my name to be mentioned in your husband's letter. Let me hear again exactly what he wishes to say. Emily repeated the words and then offered one of those suggestions which have a special value of their own to persons unaccustomed to the use of their pens. Suppose you try, Miss, how it looks in writing. Childish as the idea was, Agnes tried the experiment. If I let you mention me, she said, we must at least decide what you are to say. She wrote the words in the briefest and plainest form. I venture to state that my wife has been known from her childhood to Miss Agnes Lockwood who feels some little interest in my welfare on that account. Reduced to this one sentence there was surely nothing in the reference to her name which implied that Agnes had permitted it or that she was even aware of it. After a last struggle with herself she handed the written paper to Emily. Your husband must copy it exactly without altering anything. She stipulated, on that condition I grant your request. Emily was not only thankful, she was really touched. Agnes hurried the little woman out of the room. Give me time to repent and take it back again, she said. Emily vanished. Is the tie that once bound us completely broken? Am I as entirely parted from the good and evil fortune of his life as if we had never met and never loved? Agnes looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Not ten minutes since those serious questions had been on her lips. She almost shocked her to think of the commonplace manner in which they had already met with their reply. The mail of that night would appeal once more to Montberry's remembrance of her in the choice of a servant. Two days later the post brought a few grateful lines from Emily. Her husband had got the place. Ferrari was engaged for six months certain as Lord Montberry's courier. End of chapter four. Recording by Gaines de of Badreck dot com. Chapter five of The Haunted Hotel, a mystery of modern Venice. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Gaines de, The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins. Chapter five. After only one week of travelling in Scotland, my Lord and my Lady returned unexpectedly to London. Introduced to the mountains and lakes of the Highlands, her ladyship positively declined to improve her acquaintance with them. When she was asked for her reason, she answered with a Roman brevity. I have seen Switzerland. For a week more the newly married couple remained in London in the strictest retirement. On one day in that week the nurse returned in a state of most un-customary excitement from an errand on which Agnes had sent her. Passing the door of a fashionable dentist, she had met Lord Montberry himself just leaving the house. The good woman's report described him with malicious pleasure as looking wretchedly ill. His cheeks are getting hollow, my dear, and his beard is turning grey. I hope the dentist heard him. Knowing how heartily her faithful old servant hated the man who had deserted her, Agnes made dual allowance for a large infusion of exaggeration in the picture presented to her. The main impression produced on her mind was an impression of nervous and easiness. If she trusted herself in the streets by daylight, while Lord Montberry remained in London, how could she be sure that his next chance meeting might not be a meeting with herself? She waited at home, privately ashamed of her own undignified conduct for the next two days. On the third day the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers announced the departure of Lord and Lady Montberry for Paris on their way to Italy. Mrs. Ferrari, calling the same evening, informed Agnes that her husband had left her with all reasonable expression of conjugal kindness, his temper being improved by the prospect of going abroad. But one other servant accompanied the travellers. Lady Montberry's made, rather a silent, unsociable woman, so far as Emily had heard. Her ladyship's brother, Baron Rivar, was already on the continent. It had been arranged that he was to meet his sister and her husband at Rome. One by one the dull weeks succeeded each other in the life of Agnes. She faced her position with admirable courage, seeing her friends, keeping herself occupied in her leisure hours with reading and drawing, leaving no means untried of diverting her mind from the melancholy of remembrance of the past. But she had loved too faithfully. She had been wounded too deeply to feel in any adequate degree the influence of the moral remedies which she employed. Persons who met with her in the ordinary relations of life, deceived by her outward serenity of manner, agreed that Miss Lockwood seemed to be getting over her disappointment. But an old friend and school companion who happened to see her during a brief visit to London was inexpressibly distressed by the change that she detected in Agnes. This lady was Mrs Westwick, the wife of that brother of Lord Montberry who came next to him in age and who was described in the peerage as presumptive heir to the title. He was then away looking after his interests in some mining property which he possessed in America. Mrs Westwick insisted on taking Agnes back with her to her home in Ireland. Come and keep me company while my husband is away. My three little girls will make you their playfellow and the only stranger you will meet is the governess, whom I answer for your liking beforehand. Pack up your things and I will call for you to-morrow on my way to the train. In those hardy terms the invitation was given. Agnes thankfully accepted it. For three happy months she lived under the roof of her friend. The girls hung around her in tears at her departure. The youngest of them wanted to go back with Agnes to London. Half ingest, half in earnest, she said to her old friend at parting. If your governess leaves you, keep the place open for me. Mrs Westwick laughed. The wiser children took it seriously and promised to let Agnes know. On the very day when Miss Lockwood returned to London she was recalled to those associations with the past which she was most anxious to forget. After the first kissings and greetings were over, the old nurse, who had been left in charge at the lodgings, had some startling information to communicate derived from the courier's wife. Here has been little Mrs Ferrari, my dear, in a dreadful state of mind inquiring when you would be back. Her husband has left Lord Montbury without a word of warning and nobody knows what has become of him. Agnes looked at her in astonishment. Are you sure of what you are saying? She asked. The nurse was quite sure. Why, Lord bless you, the news comes from the courier's office in Golden Square. From the secretary, Miss Agnes, the secretary himself. Hearing this, Agnes began to feel alarmed as well as surprised. It was still early in the evening. She at once sent a message to Mrs Ferrari to say that she had returned. In an hour or more the courier's wife appeared in a state of agitation which it was not easy to control. Her narrative, when she was at last able to speak connectedly, entirely confirmed the nurse's report of it. After hearing from her husband with tolerable regularity from Paris, Rome and Venice, finally had twice written to him afterwards and had received no reply. Feeling uneasy she had gone to the office in Golden Square to inquire if he had been heard of there. The post of the morning had brought a letter to the secretary from a courier then at Venice. It contained startling news of Ferrari. His wife had been allowed to take a copy of it which she now handed to Agnes to read. The writer stated that he had recently arrived in Venice. He had previously heard that Ferrari was with Lord and Lady Montberry at one of the old Venetian palaces which they had hired for a term. Being a friend of Ferrari he had gone to pay him a visit. Ringing at the door that opened on the canal and veiling to make anyone hear him, he had gone round to a side entrance opening on one of the narrow lanes of Venice. Here, standing at the door as if she was waiting for him to try that way next, he found a pale woman with magnificent dark eyes who proved to be no other than Lady Montberry herself. She asked, in Italian, what he wanted. He answered that he wanted to see the courier Ferrari if it was quite convenient. She had once informed him that Ferrari had left the palace without assigning any reason and without even leaving an address at which his monthly salary then due to him could be paid. Amazed at this reply the courier inquired if any person had offended Ferrari or quarrelled with him. The lady answered, to my knowledge certainly not. I am Lady Montberry and I can positively assure you that Ferrari was treated with the greatest kindness in this house. We are as much astonished as you are at his extraordinary disappearance. If you should hear of him, pray let us know so that we may at least pay him the money which is due. After one or two more questions, quite readily answered relating to the date and the time of day at which Ferrari had left the palace, the courier took his leave. He had once entered on the necessary investigations without the slightest result so far as Ferrari was concerned. Nobody had seen him. Nobody appeared to have been taken into his confidence. Nobody knew anything that is to say anything of the slightest importance even about persons so distinguished as Lord and Lady Montberry. It was reported that her ladyship's English maid had left her before the disappearance of Ferrari to return to her relatives in her own country and that Lord Montberry had taken no steps to supply her place. His lordship was described as being in delicate health. He lived in the strictest retirement nobody was admitted to him, not even his own countrymen. A stupid old woman was discovered who did the housework at the palace, arriving in the morning and going away again at night. She had never seen the lost courier. She had never even seen Lord Montberry, who was then confined to his room. Her ladyship, a most gracious and adorable mistress, was in constant attendance on her noble husband. There was no other servant than in the house so far as the old woman knew but herself. The meals were sent in from a restaurant. My lord it was said disliked strangers. My lord's brother-in-law the Baron was generally shut up in a remote part of the palace, occupied, the gracious mistress said, with experiments and chemistry. The experiments sometimes made a nasty smell. A doctor had laterally been called into his lordship, an Italian doctor, long resident in Venice. Increase being addressed to this gentleman, a physician of undoubted capacity and respectability, it turned out that he also had never seen Ferrari, having been summoned to the palace as his memoranda book showed, at a date subsequent to the courier's disappearance. The doctor described Lord Montberry's malady as bronchitis. So far there was no reason to feel any anxiety, though the attack was a sharp one. If alarming symptoms should appear he had arranged with her ladyship to call in another physician. For the rest it was impossible to speak too highly of my lady, night and day she was at her lord's bedside. With these particulars began and ended the discoveries made by Ferrari's courier friend. The police were on the lookout for the lost man, and that was the only hope which could be held forth for the present to Ferrari's wife. What do you think of it, miss? The poor woman asked equally, what would you advise me to do? Agnes was at a loss how to answer her. It was an effort even to listen to what Emily was saying. The references in the courier's letter to Montberry, the report of his illness, the melancholy picture of his secluded life, had reopened the old wound. She was not even thinking of the lost Ferrari. Her mind was at Venice by the sick man's bedside. I hardly know what to say, she answered, I have had no experience in serious matters of this kind. Do you think it would help you, miss? If you read my husband's letters to me, there are only three of them they won't take long to read. Agnes compassionately read the letters. They were not written in a very tender tone. Dear Emily, and yours affectionately, these conventional phrases were the only phrases of endearment which they contained. In the first letter Lord Montberry was not very favourably spoken of. We leave Paris tomorrow, I don't much like my lord, he is proud and cold and between ourselves stingy in money matters. I have had to dispute such trifles as a few centimes in the hotel bill, and twice already some sharp remarks have passed between the newly married couple, in consequence of her ladyship's freedom in purchasing pretty tempting things at the shops in Paris. I can't afford it you must keep to your allowance. She has had to hear those words already, for my part I like her. She has the nice easy foreign manners. She talks to me as if I was a human being like herself. The second letter was dated from Rome. My lord's caprices, Ferrari wrote, have kept us perpetually on the move. He is becoming incurably restless, I suspect he is uneasy in his mind. Painful recollections I should say, I find him constantly reading old letters when her ladyship is not present. We were to have stopped at Genoa, but he hurried us on, the same thing at Florence. Here at Rome my lady insists on resting. Her brother has met us at this place. There has been a quarrel already, the lady's maid tells me, between my lord and the baron. The latter wanted to borrow money of the former. His lordship refused in language which offended Baron Rivard. My lady pacified them and made them shake hands. The third and last letter was from Venice. More of my lord's economy. Instead of staying at the hotel we have hired a damp, moldy, rambling old palace. My lady insists on having the best suites of rooms wherever we go, and the palace comes cheaper for a two-month term. My lord tried to get it for longer. He says the quiet of Venice is good for his nerves, but a foreign speculator has secured the palace and is going to turn it into an hotel. The baron is still with us, and there have been more disagreements about money matters. I don't like the baron, and I don't find the attractions of my lady grow on me. She was much nicer before the baron joined us. My lord is a punctual paymaster. It's a matter of honour with him. He hates parting with his money, but he does it because he has given his word. I receive my salary regularly at the end of each month, not a franc extra, though I have done many things which are not part of a courier's proper work. Fancy the baron trying to borrow money of me. He is an infederate gambler. I didn't believe it when my lady's maid first told me so, but I have seen enough to satisfy me that she was right. I have seen other things besides which… well, which don't increase my respect for my lady and the baron. The maid says she means to give warning to leave. She is a respectable British female and doesn't take things quite so easily as I do. It is a dull life here. No going into company, no company at home. Not a creature sees my lord, not even the consul or the banker. When he goes out he goes alone and generally towards nightfall. Indoors he shuts himself up in his own room with his books, and sees as little of his wife in the baron as possible. I fancy things are coming to a crisis here. If my lord's suspicions are once awakened the consequences will be terrible. Under certain provocations the noble Montberry is a man who would stick at nothing. However, the pay is good and I can't afford to talk of leaving the place what my lady's maid. Agnes handed back the letters, so suggestive of the penalty paid already for his own infatuation by the man who had deserted her, with feelings of shame and distress which made her no fit counsellor for the helpless woman who depended on her advice. The one thing I can suggest, she said after first speaking some kind words of comfort and hope, is that we should consult a person of greater experience than ours. Suppose I write and ask my lawyer, who is also my friend and trustee, to come and advise us to-morrow after his business hours. Emily eagerly and gratefully accepted the suggestion. An hour was arranged for the meeting on the next day, the correspondence was left under the care of Agnes, and the courier's wife took her leave. Weary and heart-sick, Agnes lay down on the sofa to rest and compose herself. The careful nurse brought in a reviving cup of tea. Her quaint gossip about herself and her occupations while Agnes had been away acted as a relief to her mistresses over burdened mind. They were still talking quietly when they were startled by a loud knock at the house door. Her red footsteps ascended the stairs. The door of the sitting-room was thrown open violently. The courier's wife rushed in like a mad woman. He's dead! They've murdered him! Those wild words were all she could say. She dropped on her knees at the foot of the sofa, held out her hand with something clasped in it and fell back in a swoon. The nurse, signing to Agnes to open the window, took the necessary measures to restore the fainting woman. What's this? She exclaimed. Here's a letter in her hand. See what it is, Miss. The open envelope was addressed, evidently in a faint handwriting to Mrs. Ferrari. The postmark was Venice. The contents of the envelope were a sheet of foreign note paper and a folded enclosure. On the note paper one line only was written. It was again in a faint handwriting, and it contained these words. To console you for the loss of your husband. Agnes opened the enclosure next. It was a Bank of England note, four thousand pounds. End of Chapter 5, read by Kehinde, of Bahatrek.com. Chapter 6 of The Haunted Hotel, a mystery of modern Venice. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kehinde, The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins. Chapter 6 The next day, the friend and legal advisor of Agnes Lockwood, Mr. Troy, called on her by appointment in the evening. Mrs. Ferrari, still persisting in the conviction of her husband's death, has sufficiently recovered to be present at the consultation. Assisted by Agnes, she told the lawyer the little that was known relating to Ferrari's disappearance, and then produced the correspondence connected with that event. Mr. Troy read, first, the three letters addressed by Ferrari to his wife, secondly, the letter written by Ferrari's courier friend, describing his visit to the palace, and his interview with Lady Montberry, and thirdly, the one line of anonymous writing which had accompanied the extraordinary gift of a thousand pounds to Ferrari's wife. Well known at a later period as the lawyer who acted for Lady, lideard in the case of theft, generally described as the case of my lady's money, Mr. Troy was not only a man of learning and experience in his profession, he was also a man who had seen something of society at home and abroad. He possessed a keen eye for character, a quaint humor, and a kindly nature which had not been deteriorated even by a lawyer's professional experience of mankind. With all these personal advantages, it is a question nevertheless whether he was the fittest advisor whom Agnes could have chosen under the circumstances. Little Mrs. Ferrari, with many domestic merits, was an essentially commonplace woman. Mr. Troy was the last person living who was likely to attract her sympathies. He was the exact opposite of a commonplace man. She looks very ill, poor thing. In these words the lawyer opened the business of the evening, referring to Mrs. Ferrari, as unceremoniously as if she had been out of the room. She has suffered a terrible shock, Agnes answered. Mr. Troy turned to Mrs. Ferrari and looked at her again with interest due to the victim of a shock. He drummed absently with his fingers on the table. At last he spoke to her. My good lady, you don't really believe that your husband is dead? Mrs. Ferrari put her handkerchief to her eyes. The word dead was ineffectual to express her feelings. Murdered, she said sternly, behind her handkerchief. Why, and by whom, Mr. Troy asked? Mrs. Ferrari seemed to have some difficulty in answering. You have read my husband's letter, sir. She began. I believe he discovered. She got as far as that, and there she stopped. What did he discover? There are limits to human patience, even the patience of a bereaved wife. This cool question irritated Mrs. Ferrari into expressing herself plainly at last. He discovered Lady Montberry and the Baron. She answered with a burst of hysterical vehemence. The Baron is no more that vile woman's brother than I am. The wickedness of those two wretches came to my poor dear husband's knowledge. The ladies made left her place on account of it. If Ferrari had gone away, too, he would have been alive at this moment. They have killed him. I say they have killed him to prevent it from getting to Lord Montberry's ears. So in short, sharp sentences and in louder and louder accents Mrs. Ferrari stated her opinion of the case. Still keeping his own view in reserve, Mr. Troy listened with an expression of satirical approval. Very strongly stated Mrs. Ferrari. He said, You build up your sentences well. You clinch your conclusions in a workman-like manner. If you had been a man, you would have made a good lawyer. You would have taken juries by the scruff of their necks. Complete the case, my good lady. Complete the case. While as next who sent you this letter, enclosing the bank note, the two wretches who murdered Mr. Ferrari would hardly put their hands in their pockets and send you a thousand pounds. Who is it, eh? I see the postmark on the letter is Venice. Have you any friend in that interesting city with a large heart and a purse to correspond who has been led into the secret and who wishes to console you anonymously? It was not easy to reply to this. Mrs. Ferrari began to feel the first inward approaches of something like hatred towards Mr. Troy. I don't understand you, sir. She answered, I don't think this is a joking matter. Agnes interfered for the first time. She drew her chair a little nearer to her legal counselor and a friend. What is the most probable explanation in your opinion? She asked. I shall offend Mrs. Ferrari if I tell you, Mr. Troy answered. No, sir, you won't, cried Mrs. Ferrari, hating Mr. Troy undisguisedly by this time. The lawyer leaned back in his chair. Very well, he said in his most good-humored manner, let's have it out. Observe, madame, I don't dispute your view of the physician of affairs at the palace in Venice. You have your husband's letters to justify you, and you have also the significant fact that Lady Montberry's maid did really leave the house. We will say then that Lord Montberry has presumably been made the victim of a foul wrong, that Mr. Ferrari was the first to find it out, and that the guilty persons had reasons to fear not only that he would acquaint Lord Montberry with his discovery, but that he would be a principal witness against them if the scandal was made public in a court of law. Now, Mark, admitting all this, I draw a totally different conclusion from the conclusion at which you have arrived. Here is your husband left in this miserable household of three under very awkward circumstances for him. What does he do? But for the bank note and the written message sent to you with it, I should say that he had wisely withdrawn himself from association with a disgraceful discovery and exposure by taking secretly to flight. The money modifies this view, unfavorably so far as Mr. Ferrari is concerned. I still believe he is keeping out of the way. But I now say he is paid for keeping out of the way, and that bank note there on the table is the price of his absence, sent by the guilty persons to his wife. Mrs. Ferrari's watery gray eyes brightened suddenly. Mrs. Ferrari's dull drab-colored complexion became enlivened by a glow of brilliant red. It's false, she cried, it's a burning shame to speak of my husband in that way. I told you I should offend you, said Mr. Troy. Agnes interposed once more in the interests of peace. She took the offended wife's hand. She appealed to the lawyer to reconsider that side of his theory, which reflected harshly on Ferrari. While she was still speaking, the servant interrupted her by entering the room with a visiting card. It was the card of Henry Westwick, and there was an ominous request written on it in pencil. I bring bad news. Let me see you for a minute downstairs. Agnes immediately left the room. Even with Mrs. Ferrari, Mr. Troy permitted his natural kindness of heart to show itself on the surface at last. He tried to make his peace with a courier's wife. You have every claim my good soul to resent a reflection cast upon your husband. He began. I may even say that I respect you for speaking so warmly in his defence. At the same time, remember, that I am bound in such a serious matter as this to tell you what is really in my mind. I can have no intention of offending you, seeing that I am a total stranger to you and to Mr. Ferrari. A thousand pounds is a large sum of money, and a poor man may exclusively be tempted by it to do nothing worse than to keep out of the way for a while. My only interest acting on your behalf is to get at the truth. If you will give me time, I see no reason to despair of finding your husband yet. Ferrari's wife listened without being convinced. Her narrow little mind, filled to its extreme capacity by her unfavourable opinion of Mr. Troy, had no room left for the process of correcting its first impression. I am much obliged to you, sir, was all she said. Her eyes were more communicative. Her eyes added in their language. You may say what you please. I will never forgive you to my dying day. Mr. Troy gave it up. He composedly wheeled his chair round, put his hands in his pockets, and looked out of the window. After an interval of silence the drawing-room door was opened. Mr. Troy wheeled around again briskly, to the table expecting to see Agnes. To his surprise there appeared in her place a perfect stranger to him, a gentleman in the prime of life with a marked expression of pain and embarrassment on his handsome face. She looked at Mr. Troy and bowed gravely. I am so unfortunate as to have brought news to Miss Agnes Lockwood which has greatly distressed her. He said, She has retired to her room. I am requested to make her excuses and to speak to you in her place. Having introduced himself in those terms he noticed Mrs. Ferrari and held out his hand to her kindly. It is some years since we last met, Emily. He said, I am afraid you have almost forgotten the master Henry of old times. Emily in some little confusion made her acknowledgments and begged to know if she could be of any use to Miss Lockwood. The old nurses with her, Henry answered, they will be better left together. He turned once more to Mr. Troy. I ought to tell you, he said, that my name is Henry Westwick. I am the younger brother of the late Lord Montbury. The late Lord Montbury, Mr. Troy exclaimed. My brother died at Venice yesterday evening. There is the telegram. With that startling answer he handed the paper to Mr. Troy. The message was in these words. The Montbury Venice to Stefan Robert Westwick, Newbury's Hotel, London. It is useless to take the journey. Lord Montbury died of bronchitis at 8.40 this evening. All needful details by post. Was this expected, sir? The lawyer asked. I cannot say that it has taken us entirely by surprise, Henry answered. My brother Stefan, who is now the head of the family, received a telegram three days since informing him that alarming symptoms had declared themselves and that a second physician had been called in. He telegraphed back to say that he had left Ireland for London on his way to Venice and to direct that any further message might be sent to his hotel. The reply came in a second telegram. It announced that Lord Montbury was in a state of insensibility and that in his brief intervals of consciousness he recognized nobody. My brother was advised to wait in London for later information. The third telegram is now in your hands. That is all I know, up to the present time. Happening to look at the courier's wife, Mr. Troy was struck by the expression of blank fear which showed itself in the woman's face. Mrs. Ferrari, he said, have you heard what Mr. Westwick has just told me? Every word of it, sir. Have you any questions to ask? No, sir. You seem to be alarmed, the lawyer persisted. Is it still about your husband? I shall never see my husband again, sir. I have thought so all along as you know. I feel sure of it now. Sure of it, after what you have just heard. Yes, sir. Can you tell me why? No, sir. It's a feeling I have. I can't tell why. Oh, a feeling, Mr. Troy repeated in a tone of compassionate contempt. When it comes to feelings, my good soul. He left the sentence unfinished and rose to take his leave of Mr. Westwick. The truth is he began to feel puzzled himself and he did not choose to let Mrs. Ferrari see it. Except the expression of my sympathy, sir, he said to Mr. Westwick politely, I wish you good evening. Henry turned to Mrs. Ferrari as the lawyer closed the door. I have heard of your trouble, Emily, from Miss Lockwood. Is there anything I can do to help you? Nothing, sir. Thank you. Perhaps I had better go home after what has happened. I will call tomorrow and see if I can be of any use to Miss Agnes. I am very sorry for her. She stole away, with her formal curtsy, her noiseless step and her obstinate resolution to take the gloomiest view of her husband's case. Henry Westwick looked around him in the solitude of the little drawing room. There was nothing to keep him in the house, and yet he lingered in it. It was something to be even near Agnes to see the things belonging to her that were scattered about the room. There in the corner was her chair, with her embroidery on the work table by its side. On the little easel near the window was her last drawing not quite finished yet. The book she had been reading lay on the sofa, with her tiny pencil case in it to mark the place at which she had left off. Then after another he looked at the objects that reminded him of the woman whom he loved, took them up tenderly and laid them down again with a sigh. Ah! How far! How unattainably far from him she was still! She will never forget Montberry. He thought to himself as he took up his hat to go. Not one of us feels his death as she feels it. What a miserable wretch! How she loved him! In the street, as Henry closed the house door, he was stopped by a passing acquaintance, a wearer some inquisitive man, doubly unwelcome to him at that moment. Sad news west waked this about your brother. Rather an unexpected death, wasn't it? We never heard at the club that Montberry's lungs were weak. What will the insurance offices do? Henry started. He had never thought of his brother's life insurance. What could the offices do but pay? A death by bronchitis, certified by two physicians was surely the least disputable of all deaths. I wish you hadn't put that question into my head. He broke out irritably. Ah! said his friend. You think the widow will get the money? So do I! So do I! End of Chapter 6, read by Kehinde of Baudrec.com. Chapter 7 of The Haunted Hotel, a mystery of modern Venice. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kehinde. The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins, Chapter 7. Some days later, the insurance offices, two in number, received the formal announcement of Lord Montberry's death from her ladyship's London solicitors. The sum insured in each office was five thousand pounds, on which one year's premium only had been paid. In the face of such a pecuniary emergency as this, the directors thought it desirable to consider their position. The medical advisors of the two offices, who had recommended the insurance of Lord Montberry's life, were called into council over their own reports. The result excited some interest among persons connected with the business of life insurance. Without absolutely declining to pay the money, the two offices, acting in concert, decided on sending a commission of inquiry to Venice for the purpose of obtaining further information. Mr. Troy received the earliest intelligence of what was going on. He wrote at once to communicate his news to Agnes, adding, what he considered to be a valuable hint in these words. You are intimately acquainted, I know, with Lady Barville, the late Lord Montberry's eldest sister. The solicitors employed by her husband are also the solicitors to one of the two insurance offices. There may possibly be something in the report of the commission of inquiry touching on Ferrari's disappearance. Ordinary persons would not be permitted, of course, to see such a document. But a sister of the late Lord is so near a relative as to be an exception to general rules. If Sir Theodore Barville puts it on that footing, the lawyers, even if they do not allow his wife to look at the report, will at least answer any discreet questions she may ask referring to it. Let me hear what you think of this suggestion at your earliest convenience. The reply was received by return of post. Agnes declined to avail herself of Mr. Troy's proposal. My interference, innocent as it was, she wrote, has already been productive of such deplorable results that I cannot and dare not stir any further in the case of Ferrari. If I had not consented to let that unfortunate man refer to me by name, the late Lord Montberry would never have engaged him, and his wife would have been spared the misery and suspense from which she is suffering now. I would not even look at the report to which you allude if it was placed in my hands. I have heard more than enough already of that hideous life in the palace at Venice. If Mrs. Ferrari chooses to address herself to Lady Barville with your assistance, that is, of course, quite another thing. But even in this case I must make it a positive condition that my name shall not be mentioned. Forgive me, dear Mr. Troy. I am very unhappy and very unreasonable, but I am only a woman and you must not expect too much from me. Failed in this direction, the lawyer next advised, making the attempt to discover the present address of Lady Montberry's English maid. This excellent suggestion had one drawback. It could only be carried out by spending money and there was no money to spend. Mrs. Ferrari shrank from the bear idea of making any use of the thousand-pound note. It had been deposited in the safekeeping of a bank. If it was even mentioned in her hearing, she shuttered and referred to it with melodramatic fervor as my husband's blood money. So under stress of circumstance, the attempt to solve the mystery of Ferrari's disappearance was suspended for a while. It was the last month of the year 1860. The commission of inquiry was already at work, having begun its investigations on December 16. On the 10th, the term for which the late Lord Montberry had hired the Venetian palace expired. News by Telegram reached the insurance offices that Lady Montberry had been advised by her lawyers to leave for London with as little delay as possible. Baron Rivard, it was believed, would accompany her to England but would not remain in that country unless his services were absolutely required by her ladyship. The baron, well known as an enthusiastic student of chemistry, had heard of certain recent discoveries in connection with that science in the United States and was anxious to investigate them personally. These items of news collected by Mr. Troy were duly communicated to Mrs. Ferrari, whose anxiety about her husband made her a frequent, a too frequent visitor at the lawyer's office. The attempt to relate what she had heard to her good friend and protectress, Agnes, steadily refused to listen and positively forbade any further conversation relating to Lord Montberry's wife now that Lord Montberry was no more. You have Mr. Troy to advise you, she said, and you are welcome to what little money I can spare if money is wanted. All I ask in return is that you will not distrust me. I am trying to separate myself from remembrances. Her voice faltered. She paused to control herself. From remembrances, she resumed, which are sadder than ever since I have heard of Lord Montberry's death. Help me by your silence to recover my spirits, if I can. Let me hear nothing more until I can rejoice with you that your husband is found. Some advanced to the thirteenth of the month, and more information of the interesting sort reached Mr. Troy. The labors of the insurance commission had come to an end. The report had been received from Venice on that day.